


I Can Fake It As Good As You

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [24]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, a lot of pretentious bullshit, random shit, relationship negotions, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I keep trying to tell myself it could be worse, but—I just don’t know how.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Fake It As Good As You

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from this series either come from "Dress Me Like a Clown" by Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos or Barenaked Ladies "Everything Old Is New Again."
> 
> Sorry for bastardizing the bard. AGAIN.

Louis sniffled slightly, feeling heat pool behind his eyes. _don’t fucking cry,_ he t told himself. 

“He’s kind of being an arse, isn’t he?” Lottie muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Frankly he’s the leader of a pack of wolves,” Louis said in similar low tones, jaw tight.

“Least he’s not your dad.”

“Lots.”

“Ignore it, Lou. Especially now.”

Louis inhaled deeply, biting his lip. “What is he talking about, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Ring mum, I guess. Have you been ignoring his messages, by the way?”

“Not on purpose. I—well, Liam was in hospital, and they don’t allow phones there, and I got shit reception anyway. I mean, the first one came in during one of my courses, but the rest I just never got or whatever.” 

He thumbed through his contacts and rang his mum

“Hey, Lou, can’t talk long, sweets. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Okay, I was just wondering what’s going on with—”

“Ignore whatever he says, okay? He’s having a rough go of it at work, had to fire a couple people this week so he’s got to approve new hires and delegate a lot of extra work and it’s causing a big fuss. He’s upset that he has to pay severance to people who basically lied to him for six months, it’s a nightmare.”

“But that’s not—”

“I’ll call later this evening and explain for real, peanut, okay? I promise. Just ignore him, he’ll tire himself out soon enough. Gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis said quickly, but his mother had already hung up. To Lottie, he merely quipped, “Our parents suck.”

“Yeah. They do. What’d she say?”

“Work stress, apparently.”

“Cute.” She sighed, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. “Sometimes wish mine would do the same as yours and drop the hell out of the picture, eh?”

“Nah. You really don’t.” 

Especially not with the _enjoy your life_ and the _done trying to help._ Especially not with the _you will be on your own soon and you can figure it out on your own._ Especially not with that.

“I promise,” he added, running a hand along the back of his neck. “Your dad mentioned something about a gift, you know anything about that? For me.”

“Not a clue.” She shrugged. “Check your room, I guess.”

He sighed heavily, collecting himself in order to leave the room. “Wish me luck.”

“Godspeed?”

He shrugged, ducking out the doorway and into the corridor. He shut his own door quietly, releasing the handle carefully. He turned on a pivot, holding his breath. He saw a small box on top of his duvet, reaching for it even as he rolled his eyes.

He snapped open its hinges and stared at the watch inside the box. Because, stupidly enough, his stepfather had gifted him an Audemars Piget watch in pink gold and black leather, because _of course_ he thought that would obligate Louis to him. Of course he thought that would be the thing to tie them neatly together in an emotionless yet bountiful bond.

And it was pretty, because Louis’ stepfather had good taste in terms of the physical, if not the social or emotional. The matte black watchface was etched because _of course_ it was, and Louis had to fight the instinct to immediately place it on his wrist.

Instead he snapped the box shut and thought, _I need to give this the fuck away._

***

Louis got drunk alone that night, his new watch heavy and slip-sliding against his wrist. He was also a little drunk on self-pity and a sense of abandonment. Fighting the rising bile in his throat, he splayed out on his duvet, starfishing lazily. Hot tears stung his eyes, slipping down the sides of his face and into the fabric.

He periodically heard thumping and banging in the corridor outside his room, assuming it was his stepfather drunkenly stumbling along the carpeting. Louis groaned and rolled over, stomach churning with acidic fervour. His thigh itched from his healing tattoo and he ground his teeth in annoyance. He wished he could just go to sleep maybe for forever, rather than agonizing about all the ways he was imperfect and disgusting.

Bile still rising, he lurched out of bed and rushed into the toilet, He made it to the sink just as liquid began spilling out of his mouth. He ran the water to wash away the sick, then stuck his head under the cold stream. Water went up his nose and into his mouth. He spat repeatedly and sat down on the cool tile floor. Pulling the bathmat closer to his body, he curled up and closed his eyes.

***

Two days later, the watch again sat heavily on his wrist like an obligation, a tacit reminder that he _owed_ the world something.

So he opened his browser and found the number for the advocacy group that Thea worked for. He dialed it before his selfishness could win out.

Words tumbled from his mouth as soon as someone answered, offering himself up to volunteer at the child abuse hotline. He listened as the receptionist gave him information and took his name and number. Then he rung off and immediately threw his mobile across the room.

He gathered his school items and slunk out of the house and into his car. He swung by Liam’s to pick him up, both of them uncharacteristically quiet during the ride.

“You okay?” Liam asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah. Just angry with my stepdad still. He’s being a real dick. Seems like there’s something in the water.”

Liam snorted. “Cuts through all generations and social classes.”

“I keep trying to tell myself it could be worse, but—I just don’t know how.”

He nodded. “I keep telling myself that I won’t be like that when I have kids. And I don’t—I don’t think I will be, you know? I don’t think I could be like that to my kids. I mean, a part of me really wanted to hurt my—to hurt Geoff, but that was different.”

“Yeah, he had that one coming,” Louis agreed.

“I can’t imagine doing something like that to my kids though.”

“So you won’t, then.”

“What about you?”

Louis was about to spout something his therapist mentioned to him—the intergenerational cycle of trauma, perhaps—when he latched on to what Liam was actually asking. “No. I never would. But I’m not going to have kids, anyway.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m not. And it’s not like I have to worry about unexpected pregnancy.”

“No,” Liam said slowly, “but there are other ways—”

“I don’t want any. All right? And kids deserve to be wanted. So no.”

Liam huffed quietly, repositioning himself in his seat. “Well. It’s criminal to let that face go to waste. Consider being a sperm donor or something someday,” he joked, but it came out as an after-thought. A lame after-thought.

“Right. Can’t deprive the world of the shitshow that is my genetic makeup.”

“You know, for a narcissist, you’re weirdly down on yourself.”

“I’m not a narcissist. I’m just selfish.”

Liam snorted. “Um, more like you’re a total nutter, but okay.”

“A rose by any other name.” Louis trailed off, signaling a right turn into the college carpark.

“See? I have no idea what you’re saying half the time. You don’t make one lick of sense.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not a bad thing. I’m just dumb as a post is all.”

“Shut it, all right? You know you’re not dumb. How’re your uni applications coming, anyway?”

Liam hissed slightly, pressing his lips together. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“That gives me nothing,” Louis said, resolutely staring through the windscreen.

“Trying to be realistic about my funds and my likely A levels, okay? It’s not like I’m playing the Oxbridge game.”

“Do you want to play the Oxbridge game?”

“No.”

“Then don’t play it. But make sure you’re applying to the sorts of places that will help you do what you actually want to do someday. Not just somewhere that you can sorta maybe do something halfway not shitty.”

Liam shot him a wry smile. “Trying to fix me, Lou?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t dare. But you deserve to be happy and I’m pretty sure you’re not going to do that studying something you hate.”

“And what is you think I’d hate?”

“Um. Fashion merchandising.”

He snorted. “Suppose that’s true.”

“So, Liam Payne. Pretend you’ve just gotten the exam results of your dreams. What are you gonna do with the rest of your life?”

“Maybe it’ll involve Disneyworld, mate, I can’t be sure.”

Louis rolled his eyes and slotted his car into park. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned the car off and unbuttoned his belt. “You okay, though?”

“Fine.”

“Actually fine?”

“Super fine,” Liam agreed, opening the passenger door without a backward glance.

Louis scurried to follow, frowning despite himself. “Don’t believe it.”

“Well that’s your choice, mate, but really.” He huffed out a breath. “What do you want from me, really?”

“I don’t know. I just, like. Can’t put it into words. It’s fucking with my head.” Louis rolled his shoulders back, trying to loosen his muscles. “In addition to being insane with worry, I was—in hospital, when you were in hospital, I was so jealous. Of everyone else who knew just what to say and do. Which is insane. I’m insane. I want to be the brightest, loudest thing in the room and I end up just—being the twat who doesn’t know when to shut up. I wanted to be the one you wanted, or the one who helped the most.”

Liam laughed, loud and sharp, voice echoing strangely through the morning air. “You have a really skewed view of yourself, I reckon.”

“Meaning.”

“Like, you seem to think you need to find the thing that’ll make you happy, like the right person or the right, I dunno, snappy comeback that’ll tip the scale in your favour. Nothing actually makes you happy, Lou, and nothing’s going to. You gotta give yourself permission to not be a miserable twat. Like, to let yourself think that maybe you deserve to be happy even if your parents are shit and don’t treat you right.”

“You sure this is a lecture meant for me, and not, you know, you standing in front of a mirror, mate?”

“No, but like, listen—you claw and claw for attention, right, but you can’t handle it when you get it and you kick yourself for wanting it and you blow up about it. Because maybe the attention distracts you, like, or it makes you happy that someone can see your potential underneath all the bullshit, but then you tell yourself you don’t deserve it.”

“I _don’t_ deserve it though.”

“Why not?”

“Talk to anyone else who’s met me and they can give you a fair idea.” Louis cleared his throat awkwardly. “A good person wouldn’t do the things I’ve done or made my mistakes. A good person wouldn’t need anyone’s approval to live a good life.”

“Just because your parents are shit doesn’t mean they’re right about you.”

“Stepfather. And I don’t need his fucking approval,” Louis growled.

“But you want it.”

Louis shrugged.

“That’s not such a horrible thing, I reckon. Not that weird. But you might wanna stop beating yourself up when you don’t get it, like, because he may never come around. And that’s shit. Believe me, I know how shit it is to have a horrible parent who would rather see me dead than the way I am. But I had to stop letting him be the voice in my head and take over that job for myself, like.” Liam chuckled bitterly. “Eventually I had to stop listening to the endless loop of _see here, you little shit, I’ll show you what you’re really worth_ just as he kicked his boot into my gut.”

“Shit. I’m a horrible friend.”

Liam stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. “You’ve twisted things up again, haven’t you? Because that’s not what I said.”

“I always manage to make things all about myself,” Louis whined quietly.

“Lou, that’s—not. Never mind.” Liam stopped and blinked at him passively, almost as if waiting for another petulant outburst. 

Louis shook himself slightly. “You should get in before the bell, Li, you have revising to do, right?”

Liam sighed and shook his head. “You giving me a ride home?”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“Kay.” He nodded, eyes dark and serious, but he walked into the building without saying anything else.

***

“Can you shave a formaldehyde-soaked cat with a scalpel, do you reckon?” Louis asked, flicking through multiple pages of his maths text as he picked at his lunch in the canteen.

“I have no idea. Why,” Zayn muttered, staring at the bent paperback in his hand, pages curled so he could hold it in one hand. He was wearing his black-rimmed glasses, his dark lashes nearly touching the lenses as he peered down at his book.

“No reason.”

Louis’ words finally seemed to register with him and he straightened up slowly. “Why, Louis?”

“Can you build an explosive device out of things commonly found in a chemistry lab? Say, at a prep college?”

“Shut the fuck up, you absolute moron. You can’t talk about ex—about that kind of shit around me, everyone already thinks I’m a terrorist.”

“What, still? Seriously?” Louis laughed aloud, teeth sharp against his lips. “Have they met you, you goddamn priss? You wouldn’t last a day in the fucking desert.”

Zayn clenched his jaw and lowered his bent book slowly. “I swear to god I will slap you silly, don’t think I won’t.”

“I believe you. Um, random question, what point in particular are you at odds with?” Louis asked, voice light and eyes mischievous.

“The part where I’m going to look like an accomplice to a detonation that causes some arsehole to, like, lose an eye or a foot.”

“Does this arsehole have diabetes?” Louis tipped is head to the side.

“No, seriously. If you’re going postal I want advance notice so I can get the fuck out without a bullet to the chest.”

“You mean like from the g—” he began before Zayn clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Stop fucking talking about that, I already told you everyone thinks I’m a terrorist as it is!” Zayn hissed sharply. Louis fucked his tongue outward, licking the inside of Zayn’s palm. His lips curled up when Zayn grimaced, though Zayn’s hand didn’t move away. “I have no bloody clue why I’m friends with all you white boys. Christ.”

Louis pulled his face away and put on his best shit-eating grin. “Cuz we’re so very pretty?”

“Pack it in, Lou.”

He pulled a face and assured, “I was joking. Just bored and don’t want to read about radical numerals and binomials.” He shrugged. “Unless you want to talk to me about what it’s like to be a bi—”

“Shut up,” Zayn insisted, clapping a hand against Louis’ mouth again.

Louis waited until Zayn’s face softened slightly and he pulled away again. “I’m not going to out you in the canteen, idiot,” he murmured, rolling his eyes.

“You have absolutely no goddamn filter, right, I wouldn’t put it past you to pants me in the middle of my literature presentation tomorrow.”

“What’s it on, then? The presentation?”

Zayn sighed. “Nuh uh.”

“Nuh uh what, nuh uh? Come on!”

“You’re not gonna suck me into procrastinating with you right now.”

“It’s been repeatedly shown that I’m actually brilliant. I’ve been tested,” Louis insisted, flicking his fringe out of his eyes. Zayn stared at him passively. “Seriously. You want to compare Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to American frat-bro teenage dirtbags? Get on me. I know it pat. Wanna know how the Capulets and Montagues encapsulate the cut-throat capitalist culture to the detriment of the younger generation? Bring it. In fact, I’ve got the _brawling love and loving hate_ bit memorized and blocked out inside my head. Try me.”

“No, coz, I rather weep,” Zayn said softly, dropping his eyes to the tabletop.

Louis sucked at his teeth once then nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He yanked his book off the table and stood up, walking out of the canteen without a backward glance.

***

Louis sat in his car smoking until he saw Liam loping towards him slowly. He eyed the swing of Liam’s hips above the low-slung top of his jeans, which of course barely sat on his arse at all. Sometime during the day he’d grabbed a snapback—perhaps from Niall—and set it lightly atop his slicked-back hair. Even with some bruises and scrapes, he radiated a strange kind of intensity and heat.

Louis hated that he looked like a god. Stubbing out his cigarette, he exhaled slowly, smoke coursing through the open car window. “Fuck,” he muttered as Liam opened the passenger door. “How’s tricks, kid?”

“Fine, Lou. Can I bum a fag?” Liam tossed his bag onto the floor of the car, scrunching his face in a way that sucked in his cheeks.

“Can you!”

“Innuendo?” Liam asked immediately, slipping the belt around his waist.

“Innuendo,” Louis agreed, passing over his packet of cigarettes.

“Cheers.” He sighed and dropped his head back against the headrest, looking weary yet so, so large. He tapped out a cigarette and accepted Louis’ lighter.

Even beaten down, he was the biggest thing in Louis’ vision, not just muscular but fucking _beatific._ He was the only—and weirdest—angel Louis was ever going to encounter and he wanted to suck everything he could out of the experience.

“Sorry.”

“Fer what?” Liam slurred, tipping his temple against the window, cigarette balanced between his lips.

“Made Zayn upset at me. Something about a terrorist agenda and al-Qaeda.”

“Jeeze, Lou, really?”

“Not the al-Qaeda part. The other bit yeah.”

Liam groaned quietly, closing his eyes as he pressed his temple further into the glass of the window. “Why do you tell me this shit? I’m not like your priest or something, I’m not going to forgive you for acting like a dick.”

“Bless me father?” he replied cheekily “I’ve sinned.”

“What’s with you and the daddy issues today, jeeze.”

Louis pulled a face, sticking his key in the ignition. “You’re not really one to talk either, you know. We both come from the land of sour hearts and small minds, eh?” He turned on the car, listening to the engine hum.

“Do you tell me the things that you do in the hopes that I’ll yell at you?”

“Um. Not on purpose, I don’t think? You do have that kind of air about you though, like, that _you’d be fun to debauch_ and _you’re so responsible that seeing you get down and dirty is like a revelation,_ you know?” He eased the car into _drive_ and slowly worked his way out of the carpark.

“You tell me, you’re the one who’s actually done it. Like. Debauched me.”

Louis quirked up a dark smirk. “Yeah? You want to punish me and make me call you Daddy?” He bit his lip, giving Liam a seductive side-eye.

“Lou,” Liam whined, half-warning, half-embarrassed.

“Talk about how big you are, about how I can be so good for you so I can get rewarded, to get filled up so much it hurts, Daddy, that I want you to wreck me?” Louis murmured, still smirking.

“Stop it.”

“What if I don’t?” he whispered, biting his lip as he turned onto the main road. “Are you going to punish me for being naughty? Huh, Daddy?”

 _“Stop it,”_ Liam snapped, arm snaking out to grasp tight on Louis’ wrist.

“Fine, fuck, I’ll stop antagonizing you,” Louis agreed easily, feeling Liam’s arm go pliant. “Might be kinda hot though.”

“It’s fucked-up, is what it is.”

“The dick wants what it wants,” Louis responded with a shrug, shaking off Liam’s hand.

“You hate your father. Hell, I hate my father. I don’t really want to, like—what,” Liam attempted, voice quiet with confusion.

“Eroticise it? The hate? Really? Huh, maybe you shouldn’t have sex with Zayn then.”

“What? Why?” he asked sharply.

“He fucks like a rabid animal. It’s kinda hot, but like—angry.”

“That’s because you hate each other.”

“He hates everything.”

“He doesn’t hate me.”

“You gonna bone him then?” Louis asked, voice cold as he stared out the windscreen.

Liam exhaled, lowering his window to throw the butt of his cigarette onto the road. “Class act, you are today, Lou. Shit.”

“Whatever. I don’t know how to function around people, all right? Lay off.”

“You don’t get to be jealous of anything, like. Whether I do or don’t have sex with him.”

“I don’t, do I?” Louis’ voice grew in pitch despite himself. “You’re the one who broke up with me, you know. Not the other way around.”

Liam shrugged, jostling against the leather interior. He fumbled for another fag and lit it. “You would never have broken up with me, though.”

“Yeah. I know,” Louis said quietly, gripping the wheel tightly.

“Even though you should have. Being with me fucked you up, you know.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Every time you told yourself I’m somehow better than you, that fucked you up.”

“You _are_ better than me. Plus even my therapist thought it was okay that we were together, Liam, Christ.”

“I’m not better than you! And maybe I’m only just realizing this next bit, but still, Lou, being with me made you hate yourself more. Whether we’re compatible or not—whether you’re able to _love_ anyone or not—you need to at least not hate yourself if you’re going to date someone.”

“You loved me. That was enough.”

“Not for me.” Liam shook his head slowly. “Like, even if you couldn’t love me, I couldn’t have you hating yourself. That’s—that’s what it was.”

“What, so you’re fine being my friend? Friends are supposed to like each other too, they’re supposed to want the best for each other.”

“Yeah, well, consider it incentive or something.”

Louis’ nostrils flared. “No way. That is so fucking manipulative, Liam, Christ. Stipulating that you’ll only get back together with me if I ace therapy, if I’m a good little patient? That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, then, maybe we’re not compatible.”

“This sucks. This is why I don’t do relationships. Fuck,” Louis muttered, knuckles going white.

“How flattering.”

“Shut up, Liam, now is not the time.”

“If not now, when? We take A-levels soon and then what are we supposed to do after that?”

“You’re going to university, obviously.”

“God, Lou, stop trying to fix me. _Please.”_

“Then stop trying to fix me,” Louis spat, “because you’re doing it so much worse than I am. Plus you’re bad at it!”

“Thanks for the vote of fucking confidence, crap.”

“What, do you want to be responsible for fixing people or something? Take on the weight of the world? I think you do that a little bit too much already, to be honest.”

“Stop being mean to me just because your feelings got hurt, okay?”

“Physician, heal thyself,” Louis muttered, pulling up in front of Liam’s house. “I’d really like it if you got our of the car, now.”

“What? You don’t—we need to finish talking about this.”

“I don’t really owe you that right now, and if we keep talking about it I’m going to say something I regret. So you’re gonna want to get out while you can.” He groaned, tipping his head back. “Seriously. You’ll get, like, flayed if you don’t.”

“Fine, if that’s how you want to play it.” Liam wedged the cigarette into his teeth and threw the door open, spilling out with his bag in tow. “Bye!” he called sarcastically, tossing Louis’ lighter to him.

***

Louis headed to the basement and stripped down nude before slipping to a pair of board shorts he yanked from the cabinet. Then he retreated to the corner of the room and tried to set everything around him on fire.

He told himself that chlorine would help things, that perhaps his fringe and his leg hair and his clothing could be set aflame. He held his lighter to a torn-out piece of his own hair and watched it sizzle slowly. 

He cast a sidelong glance at his watch, the idiotic watch, that he had set atop his pile of clothes. He wondered if the leather strap would burn. He assumed his pants were likely flame-retardant and his board-shorts most certainly were too. He searched through the pockets of his trousers and pulled out wrinkled receipts, quickly lighting them up. He dropped them as they slowly turned to ash.

He sighed when he would rather have shouted, throat aching with the need to release _something._ He wanted to fucking riot, to break something pretty and make someone scream.

Louis knew himself. He knew he was impulsive and hot-tempered and a little bit stupid. He knew that he had _things to work on,_ ; that he had to develop _coping strategies._ He knew that this was the kind of mood that could someday end in suicide, that he needed to keep a lid on things if he really didn’t want to die.

And he did but he didn’t, He was ambivalent in the strictest sense, that he hated living but hated the idea of actually dying. He felt stagnant and hemmed-in, horribly tucked into a life he definitely didn’t want. 

He had no intention of killing himself, mostly, but he wasn’t actively fighting against it, either. He felt like a passive participant in his own destruction, like letting the world take responsibility for killing him might in fact be a good idea. 

He didn’t _deserve_ the good things he had and he _did_ deserve the malaise of shit that ran a wide path through his life. 

He flicked at the ashes that sat by his feet then abruptly grabbed his mobile and the frankly excessive watch, making a rash decision as he did. 

Thumbing through his contacts, he rang up a call. “Harry? Hey, do you want to hang out? I have something to give you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> comments, criticism, yelling, complaints, death threats, discussions, more yelling, etc. BRING IT ALL!
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


End file.
